07 Uncorked - Chrissy McMullen Mystery (21 page)

“What you want?”

By the time my life was done flashing before my eyes, a woman had appeared beside the dog. Dark skinned, tall, and pretty, she looked vaguely familiar.

I screwed up my courage. “Lavonn?”

She scowled, etching a single crease between her brows. “Who are you?” I cleared my throat. This is where it could get tricky. “I’m um…my name is Christina McMullen.” I waited for the name to sink in. Nothing registered on her smooth-skinned features. “I’m a psychologist from Eagle Rock.” Reaching into my purse, I pulled out a business card and thrust it carefully in between her door and the jamb. “We met ahh…

once.”

She cocked her head a little.

I searched for words that wouldn’t make her let the dog eat me. “I’m a friend of—” I began, grappling weakly, but at that second a phone rang from the bowels of the house.

“Shit! Now what does he want?” she said, and turned from the door. The dog remained where he was. “Come in if you wanna.”

I stared at the dog. He stared at me. Turns out I didn’t wanna. I really didn’t wanna.

And Cujo looked like he wanted me to even less. But I was dying (maybe literally) to find out why someone had attacked me in a car wash.

“Ahh,” I spoke a little louder. “What about…” My voice failed me for a second. I cleared my throat. “What about your dog?”

“Charlie! Come here,” she said, and was gone.

In a second the dog left, too, clicking across the floor after her and leaving me to stare at the screen that had been mutilated earlier, probably during Chuck’s last visitor attack.

It took me a full thirty seconds to ramp up enough courage to put my hand on the doorknob. When it wasn’t ripped off by a rabid dog, I turned it cautiously and stepped inside.

The foyer was as neat as a pin, devoid of a single speck of dust. I walked into the interior like I was stepping on glass, waiting to be brought down like a weakened wildebeest, but the coast was clear.

Lavonn was in the kitchen. A drawer beside the sink was open, exposing a couple dozen neatly aligned cleaning products: liquids on one side, powders in the middle, rubber gloves rubbing elbows with a half a dozen scrub brushes of varying sizes. She had a cell phone clasped between her shoulder and her cheek. A rag was clutched in her hand, though I hadn’t seen a rogue dust mote since my arrival. “I was just about to clean the toilets,” she said. “Yeah. You know I will. Okay,” she said, and snapping the phone shut, stared out the window. Charlie stood immobile, head lowered as if contemplating whether to swallow me whole or enjoy me at his leisure.

Lavonn’s expression was unreadable, but there was something in her eyes that made my heart ache, and in that instant I thought, Micky was right; she had seen enough shit. I glanced out the window to see what had snagged her attention. Two kids were playing in the front yard. One wore nothing but a pair of blue socks. The other wore considerably less.

“Hey!” she said suddenly.

I stabbed my gaze back to her and noticed that the heartbreak was gone from her eyes, replaced by something grittier and far more dangerous, but I had very little time to contemplate the sudden mood swing because in that instant the dog growled. I jerked my attention to him. His hackles were rising.

A double threat. The truth was, I felt like I had a decent chance of beating Lavonn to the door should the need arise, but I didn’t feel so great about Charlie. Charlie looked like he could bring down a Hummer.

“Hey,” she said again, eyes narrowing. “Ain’t you Micky’s bitch!” My heart hammered one hard beat in my chest and threatened to stop dead. “What?” She turned in my direction, and in that instant it occurred to me that she looked exceptionally fit. Maybe my chances weren’t so good with her after all. “You’re the little shit that got Jackson put away.”

“No, I—”

“The hell you ain’t,” she said, and the dog lunged.

Chapter 21

Sometimes even dogs can’t make up for the crap life shovels at you. And if that's the case you might as well pack it in, 'cause you're up shit creek and you ain't got no paddle.

—Lavonn Amelia Blount, owner of Charlie the pit bull

“No!” I said, and jerked backward. My shoulders slammed against the wall. Charlie hit me in the chest and snapped at my ear. I tried to scream, but before the sound left my paralyzed throat he had me pinned, forepaws on each side of my body, crazy-Cujo gaze holding mine.

I waited for him to tear out my larynx, but he remained where he was, demonic rumblings issuing from his throat. “Call him off,” I whispered.

Lavonn stood a few yards behind him. I was pretty sure of that, though I didn’t have the nerve to shift my gaze from her killer dog. “Why should I?” she asked.

A thousand possible answers whirled through my mind. I pulled one from the maelstrom. “So Jamel won’t be embarrassed.”

The room went silent. Even the dog was frozen.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

I refrained from closing my eyes. I didn’t want to pass out. I was afraid if I became unconscious Charlie would tear out my gizzard before I hit the floor. “How do you think Jamel will feel if his aunt gets put away for murder?”

“I ain’t gonna murder you,” she said. “Charlie is.”

“Involuntary manslaughter,” I said. “Ten to life.”

“What?”

I had no idea what I was yammering about, but the fact that I could still yammer made me feel a little better. “Jamel needs a mother figure. You’re the closest thing he’s got.”

“What’s wrong with you?” she asked. “You too good for a little black kid with pokey-out ears?”

That gave me pause. I thought for a second. It was probably about time. “You think Micky and I are together?” I remembered, a little belatedly, maybe, that she had shown signs of jealousy in the past. Perhaps coming here hadn’t been the best idea I’d ever had.

And let me tell you, that is saying something.

“When he called you that night, you come running like a greyhound on the track.

Why do that if you wasn’t his bitch?”

“I was his therapist.” That sounded weird even to me. I mean, really, is that in the job description of a licensed psychologist?

She laughed out loud, maybe thinking the same.

“I haven’t seen him in months,” I said.

She snorted, the dog growled. I swallowed.

“I mean, before yesterday I hadn’t seen him for…” I took a deep breath, trying to rejuvenate my brain cells. “I’m not his bitch.” I was stammering a little. “Not that there’s anything wrong with bitches,” I whispered, and dared to eyeball the dog. It might, after all, be female, though I wasn’t entirely sure if demon dogs had gender.

“Why you here, then?” she asked. “Haven’t you done enough? Look around you, girl; I ain’t got nothing left. Even this shit hole ain't mine.” I raised my eyes to hers. She laughed and indicated the empty walls, the threadbare carpet. “It’s all gone. The house, the car. My pretty rosewood. All ’cause of you. There ain’t nothing else to take, so why you here?” she asked again. It wasn’t until that moment that I noticed the bruises under her left eye.

The world slowed to the speed of a dirge. Thoughts tumbled quietly into place.

“Because I’ve been hit, too,” I said.

She stared at me for a full seven seconds before she pulled her gaze away. “I don’t got no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Who hit you?”

“Nobody hit me,” she said. “Do I look like the kind of woman that’d let herself get knocked around?”

I took a deep breath. The dog was still standing guard between us.

“Was it Andrews?” I asked.

"Andrews! He's found Jesus. Haven't you heard?" She snorted. "Why the hell do you care what happens to me, anyway?"

“I don’t,” I said. “But I care about Jamel and he cares about you.” When she turned around, her expression was defiant but her eyes were suspiciously shiny. “Yeah, well, I don’t have no time to worry about somebody else’s kid.”

“Because you’re too worried about how to keep him from hurting your own?” Her eyes snapped to mine. “He wouldn’t hurt no kid,” she said, but her tone was tight.

“Just you, then,” I said.

She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “Get out of here,” she ordered.

“I would,” I admitted, and nodded cautiously toward the dog.

“Down, Charlie.” Her voice was little more than a grunt, but the dog dropped almost gratefully to all fours.

“Kennel,” she said, and he padded away, quiet as a lamb. “No reason for you to stay now.”

I had to agree, and yet I remained. Sometimes I’m not known for my stellar ability to think things through. “Who hit you?” I asked again.

Tears filled her eyes, but she held them back. “I didn’t say no one hit me.”

“Girls usually don’t,” I said. “They just show up at the morgue.” Our gazes met.

“You don’t have to take that, Lavonn.” My own voice had gone soft, almost steady.

Hers was practically inaudible. “Where would I go?”

“There are shelters, homes—” I began, but she coughed a laugh.

“You think he wouldn’t find me there?”

“He’s not all-powerful. He might think he is, but he’s not.” She smiled dismally. “Even Jackson was scared of him.” My mind was spinning, but I didn't want to look too curious. Didn't want to frighten her off. “They know each other?”

“He worked for Jackson."

"Where?"

She shrugged. "Took care of his cars and stuff."

“At his chop…" I stopped myself, though my heart was thumping with excitement.

Or maybe it was terror. "At his car repair shop?"

She shifted her eyes away. They were full of guilt and more. “I don’t know. He don't work there no more anyway and he’s real private about what he does. He don’t like no one messing in his business.”

“Even you?”

“Especially me. He don’t trust nobody.” An edge of frustration sharpened her tone, and she shifted her attention momentarily to the cabinet with the cleaning products.

“Who is he?” I asked.

She zipped her gaze to the door as if she might conjure him up by speaking his name.

“They call him Drag. He don't live here all the time. Just when he wants. But I gotta make sure it’s spotless twenty-four/sever or…” She swallowed. “He got high standards.

Likes his clothes press just so and such. Nothing wrong with that.”

“He could probably learn to turn on the vacuum if he tried really hard.” She almost laughed. “Drag clean something?” She shook her head and glanced toward the cabinet that made Proctor and Gamble a multibillion-dollar industry. “I can guarantee that won’t happen anytime soon. He’s tough. Real tough. And I thought…” She shrugged. “Thought he could keep me safe. You know…from the world.”

“But who’s going to keep you safe from him?”

She cleared her throat. “You’d best get going before he comes home.” I could see her point. It was an excellent point, but for reasons entirely unknown to me I remained where I was. “Where was he a week ago Tuesday night?” She stared at me.

“August 29th,” I said. “Where was he?”

She watched me a moment longer, then laughed out loud. “How the hell would I know? I’m just glad when he ain’t here.”

“Was he here?”

She scowled, but a noise sounded from the front of the house. She snapped her attention in that direction, then rushed it back to me. “Get out!” The desperation in her voice made me jerk toward the door. Or maybe it was my own terror that caused my attempted exit, but she stopped me.

“Not that way.” She clutched desperately at my arm. “Out back.”

“Lavonn…”

“He don’t like no one in this house.”

“Come with me,” I said.

Something fired in her eyes but it was gone in a second. “Leave,” she ordered and I did.

Chapter 22

The rich get richer and the poor get pissed.

—Micky Goldenstone, one of the poor

“It wasn’t him.” Those were the first words out of D’s mouth.

“What?” I like to think I’m pretty quick on the uptake, but sometimes I could use a hi or how are you? or even a have you been attacked in any car washes lately? before one launches into the topic at hand. Especially first thing in the morning. I tried to rub the sleep from my eyes, but it turns out it went all the way to the back of my head.

“Andrews wasn’t the guy who attacked you.” He sounded dead-shot sure. And according to certain sources, D knew criminals like the pope knows sin, but even though I tended to agree with him after my visit to the hospital, I had to ask.

“Are you sure?” I sat up in bed. Harlequin put a paw over his eyes. It was as big as a mammoth muffin. Oddly enough, the sight of it made me hungry. "I mean, I know he's been shot and everything. But maybe it's just a front. Maybe he's not too badly injured.

Maybe he snuck out for a few minutes to… kill me." And maybe I was crazy as a loon.

"He was in the chapel from seven o'clock Wednesday night to seven o'clock Thursday morning. Took his IV with him like a puppy on a leash. Guess he's been born again." There was a shrug in his tone. "I would have thought once would be enough."

"Maybe he snuck out for a while."

“At 2:45 he used the restroom.”

“How long was he gone?”

“Two minutes and fourteen seconds. He urinated in the second stall from the end closest to the door.”

“You’re making this up.”

“I am not.”

“Weren’t there urinals available?”

“There were.”

“Maybe that tells us something.”

“It tells us he’s a squatter. He’s always been a squatter.”

“You know that?”

“You don’t get to be the number one collection engineer in Chicago without finding out who squats and who stands.”

I shook my head, trying to negate the images. “He could have—”

“You want to know what I’ve learned about you?”

“No!” I said then winced and weakened. “Okay. What?”

“You let your dog poop in the park without picking it up.”

“I do not.” I made my voice sound shocked even though I was immensely relieved it wasn’t something worse. Believe you me, there is worse.

“And you have a fondness for French…tools.”